So it may come as a shocker to most people but in the 44 and a half years I've been on this Earth I have ONLY been a black female! Go ahead, take a moment, and let that sink in! 

I grew up in a household where we were taught to do our best and keep our faith in God! If and when your best wasn't enough then you lean on God. If the outcome STILL wasn't what you expected or hoped for then two things would normally occur! 1) You're encouraged by believing God has something better in store for you and 2) someone lightens the mood by telling a joke! Depending on how messed up the situation is it could easily go from a light-hearted well-intended "funny" to lift your spirits and help you crack a smile to a full-on roast courtesy of all the people that love you of course! 

Now just a gentle reminder (not bragging or anything 💅🏾) but I've only always been a wonderful woman of color so my question is- do all races look danger, disappointment, and tragedy in the face and laugh? 

More so recently we are dealing with the Coronavirus affectionately dubbed "That Rona" or just "Rona" by (my money is on) a black person. It's not that we have indisputable facts that the "Rona" is a hoax or just a bad cough no no. No secret intel, nothing hidden behind door #2, we literally know as much as the general public. That knowledge alone is enough to make anyone straighten up, pay attention, and of course wash their hands for 20 seconds- or is it? Okay okay, so I'm not saying we're NOT paying attention. I'm not suggesting that Uncle Junebug and them do not have the Crown Vic with paper tags loaded with bottled water and toilet tissue. I'm simply saying black folks will find humor in anything! I like to think this is like a superpower of ours. Handed down from generation to generation. There is almost no topic that is off-limits and when there is we are all oddly enough in agreeance that you "went too far" or that shit is not to play with. Take the recent passing of the great and legendary Mr. Kobe Bryant. Not one of us had to tell the other "Don't play with him like that."  The love and respect were surreal! Then Oprah fell on stage and "we" found a way to lovingly and respectfully "joke" about it. 

I had a hysterectomy performed about 8 years ago. Preparing my children for the surgery, I went into great detail about the who, what, when, why, and even the how! Armed with every brochure I could snag from my surgeon’s office I was ready for any questions they threw my way, except for this one. "So does that mean you're going to be our Dad now?" Oh, the gut-busting laughter that occurred as I made mental notes of which of my three daughters was laughing the hardest. Christmas was going to be just as hilarious as that joke! But it was funny! So funny a few years later my sister is being wheeled into surgery for her hysterectomy and I asked: "Are you ready to be my big brother?" Other than the chatter of her surgery team that was the last thing she heard going in. She awoke a few hours later and tried her hardest not to laugh. She just looked over to me and said "Damn, girl you're stupid." 

In a more somber moment, my family and I had gathered for the viewing of the man I found out a few years prior was my biological father. I sat a mere 10 feet away from his body as a pre-recorded piano number played over and over and over. 

"I know he is saying y'all can't play something else?" Someone remarked. 

We laughed. It wasn't just a laugh it was that kick-in-the-door moment we needed to exhale. Viewings can be tense! I mean there's a body in the room for goodness sake. The room continued to chuckle at random when my room rang. I pulled it out of my handbag and it read "Daddy". Someone asks "You gone answer him? Let's see what kinda service he got down there." 

Awe jokes! The most powerful weapon we can legally own! I have no idea how other communities handle stress, death, or bad news but in my world, we laugh- I mean you're not getting out alive anyway!

Just recently I experienced the most hellish week ever with my car! That’s saying a lot, I once had a car caught on fire while I was driving. So let's see. I started with a screw in my tire. A very very large screw. My local tire store advised me it was best to just replace the tire, as in his own words “Yeah ain’t no plugging that.” Next up I am driving through one of our infamous downpours when out of nowhere a snake lands on my windshield. Okay okay, so it wasn’t a snake. My windshield wiper fell apart- great! Now before I move on let me state one very very important fact. I AM A PROCRASTINATOR! Whew, glad we got that out of the way. So with that being said literally that screw traveled plenty of miles with me and many raindrop lives were spared due to my car’s “condition.”  They say it takes 30 days to form a habit and I must agree. After about 32 days I am now fully aware of all the potholes on my route to and from work that I and Mr.ScrewFace needed to avoid. Not to brag, but I mastered seeing the road ahead of me through the horrible streaks my non-wipers left on the windshield. Not perfect but definitely a doable system! Then, shit got real! I’m heading out to the gym at 3:30 am. Pitch dark outside and my headlight goes out. Good thing it was just the one, right? Again, 30 days to habit. So now I’m dodging potholes, and raindrops, and traveling after dark. Life was good. So good I decided to do some spring cleaning a bit early. I take my donation boxes to the car and I’m feeling mighty full of myself, procrastinate-who? So I’m wrapping up my day of early Spring cleaning and the only thing left is to drop a bag into my backseat. 

“Huh, what? WHAT HAPPENED TO MY KEY? Where is the other half of my- trunk.” 

Yep, the trunk ate a chunk of my key. How does one fix this on a bright beautiful Saturday afternoon? One waits until Monday, more accurately sixty-six minutes before you’re due at your desk.

Procrastinate who? Procrastinate ME!

“It's a 2012”

“You said hatchback?”

“No, a sedan? I guess I don’t know sir. It’s not fancy, it's just a Versa I mean.”

“What's the engine ma’am?”

“I know what the key looks like.”

“Okay guess let's start there. How many buttons?”

“None.”

“Nine?”

“NO none. Like zero. No buttons.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep pretty positive.”

“Okay give me a minute.”

In a moment not so rare I began my early morning rap concert. I performed two Pardison Fontaine songs and was halfway through the first Wale song when from the speaker I heard.

“You looking at about eeerrr starting at $168.”

“Starting you said? It doesn't have buttons or anything like it's literally just the key.”

“Is it a push to start?”

“Sir. Sir no it's a Versa so no.”

“$168 to start ya.”

As if cued, Wale’s “On Chill” chorus comes in. We’ve been on a tragedy for months. Yes, yes little Versa we have.

“Okay, thanks!”

“Good luck to ya!”

Luckily my youngest daughter is able to afford a really nice fully loaded Cadillac ATS by having her father pay for it. Even more so lucky is her full-time job is disguised as a part-time one. 

“Nanna, I need your keys”

The face buried in a pillow cover over the head second language class I took came in handy that morning.

“It’s on the table” practically rolled off her tongue.

So in case you're not keeping up we now have a screw in the tire, no windshield wipers, no headlights, and no keys, well no whole key. 

My car company unfortunately did not go for my offer to take it out back and shoot it but they were kind enough to provide me with their locksmith’s number. 

“Text me ya address”

“Oh okay hi my name is...”

“Text me ya address”

“Sir I haven't told you what I needed.”

“You called a locksmith, what more could you need?”

He had a point. Not a sharp one but some sort of rounded point.

So I sent him my address decorated with all the pretty info I so desperately needed to say on the call.

“Hi my name is Charlese Milford and I was referred to you by….” I practically wrote an essay. 

2 minutes later I get a reply

“Did you send me your address?”

Okay, Locksmith Master, you win!

4 hours later my phone rings.

“Hey! This here is Melvin. You got the other half of that key?”

“Yes, sir it's in the house. I'll call someone to bring it out to you.

“Okay that's good good cause I already have the other half out!”

“Hey Joelle Melvin the locksmith guy is out front if you can take him the other half-

“No, he’s not.”

“Joelle look out the window….”

“Yeah, I'm literally doing that right now. There is no Melvin outside”

Well, holy socks and underwear is this some paranormal parallel universe shit. I’ve waited my entire life for this moment but yet I felt so unprepared. Melvin had somehow crossed over to an alternate universe where I still lived on that street, still had the Versa- wait no. The Universe is not that cruel.

“Hi, Melvin this is Charlese. Again. You said you have half the key out but my daughter does not see anyone in our driveway. If you could give me a call back I'm a little concerned that somehow you found another car that isn't mine with a piece of key in the trunk. Okay bye.”

3 hours later

“Mommie we’re heading to Daddy’s”

“How?”

“Melvin just left.”

“Was he there for 3 hours?”

“No, more like 3 minutes.”

“Weird.”

Okay, well maybe Melvin did a good deed or Melvin was just a liar. I don't know and at this moment I really didn't even care. I was too busy celebrating my single victory over this damn car! I was now back to the dysfunctions that made my car, well, my car.

Off from work, I take the ride straight to their dad to hug my baby! There she was all windshield wiperless, one-eyed and oh let's look, yep screw still in the tire. Let's go home baby, it's been a long day. I happily tossed my kid the keys to her fully operational vehicle and did my best to make it home before it got dark. 

Before I knew it was morning! I almost grumbled at the idea of getting up then I remembered OH SHIT YOU HAVE A KEY GIRL! 

A rap concert was a must and because I was feeling all so in love with the moment nothing but Drake would do! 

I grabbed my bags, and my new complete key and took off in my Versa! Music blasting and the wind in my face!

Oh geesh what is that smell?

That actually smells familiar. Not good, just familiar. What is that?

Wait no, no did I just trade the smell for a noise? Is that a lawnmower? That can't be a lawnmower. Must be that school bus. Yeah, I have a new key so yeah gotta be the school bus.

It wasn't the school bus. 

“Mommie, I know you're joking.”

“Mommie wishes she was Symone.”

“So what happened?”

“I have no clue but maybe it was Melvin.”

“Melvin? Who is Melvin?”

“The key guy, from yesterday.”

“Ohhhhh yeah Mommie no I doubt the “key guy” killed your a/c”

“Well I'm going to call him”

“And say what?”

“And say sir I think you killed my a/c”

“Ooookay well let me know how that goes Mommie. I'll be rooting for you.”

“Hey, hi, hello Melvin. Yes, this is Charlese Milford you made a new key for my Versa yesterday. Was there any interaction with the dash or a/c? I'm asking because now it's not working. The a/c. The key is fine, but if you could give me a call back please.”

No reply

Still, reply

So great now I have a screw in my tire, a bald windshield wiper, one headlight, and an a/c that won't blow.

“How much do you still owe on it?”

“Joe I really don't know like-”

“Like too damn much. Doesn't matter the number, it's too much. Piece of junk. Anyway, I'm sending you Earl’s address. Take it to him by twelve tomorrow.”

“Earl? Who is Earl?”

“Girl, just take that raggedy ass car before 12 tomorrow.”

Now, allow me to clarify. I have always only heard of “backyard mechanics” but I’ve never been to or seen one in action. I thought they were mystical magical beings we talked about in hood fairy tales. Something like a unicorn or leprechaun. But if you are in need and lucky enough one may reveal himself to you. 

I pulled up around 11:24. I wasn't sure what the backyard mechanic rules were. I was afraid to be late, maybe I would have been bumped to the back of line or worst yet barred from the world of the original backyardigans!

“Hi, Earl? Good morning my name is Charlese and I was referred to you by….”

“Baby, where is your key?”

“Huh”

“Ya key ya key where is your key?”

“Oh sorry, here you go”

“You ain't got no buttons on this thing”

“No sir just the key’

“I'm gonna go ahead and pull her up take a look. Now what Joe say you got no air coming out?”

“Correct sir, it’s not blowing”

“Well sure best hope that aint your compressor”

“I sure do..best hope..its not...compressor”

“Gone, sit down back there. Terry back there but he don't bite”

“You named your dog Terry?”

“NO Terry is here getting his wife's car fixed. Chicken is my dog and he do bite.”

“I think I'll just stand right here if that’s okay.”

Earl drove the car to the driveway. It wasn't a regular drive tho. He popped the hood uncapped and tapped on a few things first. Without putting the hood back down Earl drove the car to the driveway. Arm extended to keep the door open he hung one leg out slightly lifted so as to not have it drag on the street. I was impressed already.

Backyard Mechanic 101: create the most complicated yet coolest way to pull the car into the driveway.

The Versa came to rest atop a piece of plywood and a fairly thin quilted blanket

“You got a match?”

“No sir I don't smoke”

“He looked at me disapprovingly”

“And don't start”

“Yes sir”

“Come on now my name Earl. Whatcho name, Joe say you is his ex wife so you telling me he found someone better looking than you.”

Woooaah woaah woah. So you're telling me! At the backyard mechanic not only do you get a little car show trick but he pays compliments too!

“No I doubt it Earl”

“Me too but if you don't tell me ya name imma call ya Joe wife”

“Its Charlese”

“Okay well Lacey you gone back there with Chicken and Terry and I'll have ya backing out ya in no time.”

Little did I know but the operative word there would be time. Lots and lots of time. There were several trips to the local auto parts store. One and a half to Walmart, yes one and a half. I was out of the store when Mr.Earl called to bring him a case of beer. One final stop at Krispy Kreme Donuts, and I couldn't argue with the man. When that Hot N Now sign is on you just have to stop.

“Okay here you go Mr.Earl”

“Oh, I aint want that whole box there. You see that Terry, Lacey trying to kill me ‘fore I can finish up ya wife car.”

“Oh no, don't do that there. Please don't do that.” Terry said in the most exhaustive tone imaginable.

Was this my future? Just how old was Terry when he got here? Is he even still married? Pretty sure his wife would have moved on by now.

“Mr.Earl say for you to come here.”

Oh, man. My ex-husband didn't cover this part. Why would Mr.Earl summon me?

“Hey Earl”

“How long you had this vehicle this here car?”

“Like 4 years, almost 5 maybe.”

“Okay well imma tell what i'm gonna do for you.”

“Okay”

“I'm going to get Reggie to put all this here back together okay? You gone need ya a blower, understand.”

“Yes” (no)

“Now this here car is 4 year old so get ya a new one hear.”

“Well, actually never mind. So a blower do I go back to -”

“NO! No that's what I’m trying to tell ya now. You gone have to go up on that internet you know how to get on there.”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“Get one from there they should have them. When you get’em bring’em ya but have someone to follow you cause imma have to keep it overnight ya you understand?”

“Yes”

“You sure? Alright now.I gotta go tear this here transmission out this car here ‘fore Terry wife leave him. Hand me notha’ one of them beer there.”

“Okay so thank you Mr.Earl should I call you when it comes in?”

“Only if ya wanna talk to me. If you want your car fixed, bring’em ya.”

“Okay, got it. Thank you again. Nice to meet you Terry.” 

“Actually it’s Eugene but nice to meet you as well.”

It was dark now. I started this journey right before lunch and now it was hours passed dinnertime.

“Hey, Joe.”

“Yeah, did he finish?”

“Wait you're not even going to ask if I'm still there?”

“Hell, I know you were still there sheed what you thought you went to Meineke or something?”

“Well, I just thought, hmm I didn't know what I thought. Well, anyway I have to order a blower and drop the car off when it comes in.”

“Oh okay that's good that's good.”

“Joe”

“Yeah”

“Is it always like this?” 

“Always like what? What are you talking about?”

“The backyard mechanic.”

“Um yes pretty much.”

I sat down a few years ago to write my first novel “The Bricks That Built She.” This story was supposed to be my release, my tell-all in hopes of recovery not just for myself but many others as well. I thought after forty-plus years I was finally ready and able to cross that bridge, but I couldn’t. Instead of writing a tell-all, I wrote a “loosely based true story” of the childhood trauma and abuse I suffered. Damn, still wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to face the truth. To know that for more than half of my life, I protected those that were supposed to protect me. To know that the things that I was taught and shown as a child still negatively impacted me to this day. The foundation that was laid for me and for many others was a shaky one at best.  I believe that those that had a hand in raising us did so to the best of their ability with the tools and knowledge they had. I don’t feel there was any ill-will or intent when we were told “What happens in this house, stays in this house” or any of the other isms we were given growing up. Understand we were being raised by people that for the most part were raised by slaves, or those still with a slave mentality. They were taught to protect their oppressors and in turn, they taught us the same. Now I am in no way assuming that no other race or ethnicity endured the same but I can only speak from my perspective as a black woman. A black woman that slowly learned over the years that being “strong” was probably the weakest thing I could have ever done. Being “strong” came in many forms. It was looking the other way when you were mistreated or wronged, adjusting to unfavorable situations and conditions. Being strong was staying in relationships for the kids, or dead on jobs because it paid the bills. Being strong became fighting back tears and not acknowledging my fears. Strong became readjusting my life and dreams for everyone around me but me. “Only the strong survive” but as the years passed it no longer felt like surviving. The moments and events that required me to be “strong” were never ones that I was proud of, never anything I wanted to share with family and friends. My strength to endure less than situations, toxic relationships and friendships with my enemies was now wearing me down. I had carried with me stories of unacknowledged hurt and pain. But I wasn’t bleeding and I was still breathing so I thought I was fine. Then one day back in 2016, after weeks of many lewd comments, remarks, and requests my Supervisor complimented me on my “strength.” 

“See Charlese, that’s why I like you. You aren’t like these other girls walking around here like they can’t take a joke, right?” I nodded and smiled. Little did he know inside I was shaking, slowly becoming unraveled after all of these years of being strong.

“We’re friends right, we’re cool?” he would often ask, giving me a fist bump. 

And that was all it took. All it took was for me to show my strength and comfort in what he was saying for things to quickly escalate from words to actions. Actions that dug so deep that for the first time in 40-plus years, I could no longer find the strength I needed to block out what was happening. I could no longer find the strength I needed to adjust to unfavorable situations. I could no longer catch ahold of the strength I once had to make me believe I was right where I wanted to be. For the first time in my life, I either couldn’t or wouldn’t be strong by my society’s definition. I started to cry day in and day out. I lay on my floor from day to day not even realizing night turning into day and day into night. I didn’t want to die but I no longer wanted to live. I no longer wanted to live a life where being a strong black woman left me draped in shame and fear. 

An elderly lady came on my line. Her voice was peaceful and inviting. She was calling in because her mobile hotspot was not working. She asked me to hold as she walked away to retrieve her device. I smiled as I heard her putting up a gentle fight to unplug the equipment.  In that moment, for no reason known to me, I began to sweat. My heart started racing and my hands began to tremble. I wanted nothing else but to breathe as it felt like there was an elephant on my chest. I don’t remember the walk to my truck, I don’t even remember grabbing my keys. My face was soaked in tears and sweat. I began to scream, and scream, and scream, and scream. I couldn’t recall the ride home. I can only remember waking up the next morning. I managed to sneak to the bathroom without my daughters seeing my face. I had broken down inside but still felt my exterior must remain intact. I am a strong black woman and I needed to get myself together. I remember staring at my phone and then scrolling through the call list trying to find someone that was just as strong as me that I could just talk to. All my calls and messages were met with the same response- “just pray, you’re a strong black woman.” At this point, I began to cringe just about any time I heard this phrase. This was a title that was to be looked upon as a badge of honor when no other man, woman, race, or ethnicity is expected to be “strong.” There are no “strong white women” t-shirts, and no one is giving shout-outs to white men for being “strong.” 

We are the proverbial mule and the more you can load onto our backs and we don’t buckle the better a mule we are. Being a strong black woman is why society as a whole lacks empathy for us. Our tears will never be worth the same as any other race of women because “we got this.”

“Every black man needs a strong black woman.” And regardless of how she’s treated, loved, or cared for she still remains. She keeps his secrets, she cleans up his messes, and she ignores the love her heart is aching for because as a strong black woman, you don’t leave. You take what you have and you make it work ‘cause as a strong black woman you are never taught how to leave, just how to fix it. 

I had reached a point where I was no longer able to “fix it.”  I was forty-one years old and in an abusive relationship that I kept trying to “fix”, I was being sexually harassed by my Supervisor five days a week at a job I hated, I had an ex-husband that was just diagnosed with leukemia, on top of family and friends calling with their issues and right in the middle of it all- I had three young daughters to raise. I refused to give them what was given to me. I refused to continue to bow and give in and call it being strong. I refused to continue to keep the secrets of those that needed to be told. But who do you talk to? Who do you unload a lifetime of hurt and secrets to? In a community where mental illness belonged only to white people and abuse of any kind was taboo - who do you talk to? Who do you tell? Where do you go for help? As a child growing up it didn’t matter the question, the answer was always God. There is nothing and no one greater than Him. I’ve heard this my entire life from those closest to me so when the decision to see a psychiatrist was made it became yet another secret I was keeping. I felt I was betraying my religion and my God. I was taught to put it in His hands, not a $ 300-an-hour French psychiatrist. Not knowing for certain, one can only assume the reason or reasons we as black people feel as if we are immune to mental illness. The diagnosis was never an option and a psychiatrist was never the answer. I’ve often felt that our faith is supposed to be so deeply rooted that we are to believe no Man nor Woman walking this earth can or will heal us. So we sweep it under the rug and carry on. Completely ignoring the damage it has caused because we have prayed and left it in the hands of the Lord. We never even entertained the idea that He may have created someone here in the flesh to care for our minds the same way He did for our bodies. I could never hear a complete and accurate definition given of mental illness by a person of color that’s how far we had withdrawn from the idea that this too could affect black people. I was a child that slept maybe three to four hours a night and no one thought this to be odd. I started waking up at 3:33 am just about every morning. I became the person you called when you could not sleep because “she will be awake.” It wasn’t until 2017 I was diagnosed with insomnia. I had never heard the word before and honestly, I had no clue that my sleep patterns were wrecking my body inside and out. Why did we not search out for help or for better? Were we thought just to be that strong that we never would need healing? We know that tires wear down on a car, and we understand that batteries will go dead but we, we, nah we just keep going and going. To even consider the idea you would be shunned. “Oh you’re white now?’ has to be the most detrimental blow to a person of color’s mental health. Or maybe we did not acknowledge mental illness in the black community because then we would have to acknowledge all those things that got us there. The abuse and neglect, the isms that were just an easy way out, the slave mentality that we held onto because it was all we knew. The idea that we needed to be fixed was admitting we were broken. We prayed and left it in God’s hands and once we learned to live with it and ignore the scars of the trauma that we’ve been subjected to for generation after generation we called it being healed when the truth is we’ve only learned to cope. This mentality is repeated and passed down from generation to generation. We take these generational curses and throw a name-like tradition on it and we think that makes it okay. Mental illness has been proven to be hereditary. If you know your history you know that someone that branches off from your family tree has suffered. Have we never stopped to think about the mental and emotional trauma and abuse endured by those that were beaten, raped, sold, and made to watch their family hung from a tree? These same people produced people that were not able to even drink from a faucet because of the color of their skin. Those people, they raised me. A generation that knew to keep whatever happened in this house, in this house. A generation that was told, “Sshhh stop making all that noise you see them white people coming.” I, we, are now raising a generation of men we have to give instructions to on how to deal with a police officer just so they return home alive. A generation that has seen more of their peers murdered before they graduate high school than we have our entire lives. But we don’t believe in mental illness. We are the poster child for mental illness. Many of us could have been saved and can be saved if we just admit we need to be. But again we can’t or we feel we shouldn’t because now we have to point fingers and name names and ugh why do all that when I can just pray and put it in God’s hands?  Not only does this slave mentality apply to white people but anyone that sought to oppress us. It’s the reason we teach our little girls to be quiet when touched inappropriately. It’s what makes you pretend that you don’t even hear when they tell you it hurts. It’s the reason we never tell the next female to be careful he hits women. We are the only race of people systematically trained to protect our oppressors, black and white.

I sent an email to my Assistant Director and made him aware I needed to speak with him. It was only one level up from where I was but the ride felt like a lifetime. I wanted nothing more than to disappear in that moment but I knew there was no more hiding and being silent.

I felt I  had been interrogated almost my entire life. From the time someone touched me inappropriately I was asked “Well what were you doing to make him do that?” I was a child and in my child’s mind, I literally questioned myself- what was I doing? I was told of how good of a man this person was and what would happen if his family found out. “Do you want to make his wife and kids sad? Do you want him to lose his job?” This was my foundation, shaky at best. So anytime anything inappropriate was said or done I would question myself. I questioned myself then and now. I didn’t feel I had the right to “tell” on him. I felt I wasn’t innocent enough to be a victim. I had made some choices and decisions in my life that were not always the best. I felt by society’s standards I needed to be a virgin in order to make these accusations. I had once confided in my then-boyfriend of a sexual attack that occurred when I was younger. He told me I wanted to be raped. He even went as far as to send me news clippings of a recent rape with a message that said even his Facebook friends said this girl wanted to be raped. This is someone that not only said he loved me but asked me to marry him. If he felt this way about me what will these complete strangers think? My hands were drenched in sweat. That feeling you get when you’ve done something wrong took over me. I thought for sure I would break down right there. My composure and demeanor were a give away my A/D later told me. I went to my desk, gathered my belongings, and headed for the exit. On my way out I passed by my Supervisor. In his hands, he carried a book titled the power of a praying husband. The irony.

 On November 10th, 2017 I marked a year of seeing a psychiatrist. I was being treated for depression, severe insomnia, and PTSD. I suffered from panic attacks and night terrors.  I share this information from a place of strength and confidence. I share this information because I know I am not alone and I need you to know you are not alone as well. Therapy or a psychiatrist may not be for everyone but healing in any form is encouraged to all. I am currently in the third-best year of my life as I call it.  I  still have some hurdles to cross but for the most part, I can say that I am genuinely happy and at peace.